


where sick skin breaks sunflowers will grow

by south_like_sherman



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: @mooncaterer this is for you i'm sorry, Angst, Anorexia, Bulimia, Depression, Eating Disorders, Heavy Angst, M/M, Metaphors, a bit - Freeform, also guess what, but - Freeform, fanfic of a fanfic, i guess, idk anymore, implied/referenced eating disorder, ive gone too far, let's do this, of fucking course, oh heck, so um, um, when will I write something happy, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 18:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10418880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/south_like_sherman/pseuds/south_like_sherman
Summary: "John's learned to count. They all have. 1, 2, 3—never more than three, and by three you mean three hundred, and by numbers you mean calories because any more than three and he thinks his lungs might fill with actual air instead of the smoke he says is the same. He learns to joke about the salad he eats and the dressing he pushes away, about how his fingers shake as he takes that extra cracker. About how he hunches over the porcelain toilet seat and coughs ups his insides, spills his guts into the crystal water.You're scared. You're afraid one day you might wake up and he won't be there, afraid one day you'll touch him and he'll disintegrate and you'll trace your hand through the fine powder of his skin and wonder where you went wrong."orjohn laurens has hollow bones.[im sorry? @mooncaterer this is your fault i apologise it's inspired by you i'm going to go wallow in regret bye]





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venusviews](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venusviews/gifts).



John's delicate. He's small and fragile and you're afraid he might break. He's like baby bird, you think. All down and hollow bones and protruding wings and fragile dreams of flight, and he's still in the nest. Still folds himself into your twig-like arms and nestles deeper, tells you how he longs to fly. But doesn't leave. And—and you don't want to let him go.

But, he's so small. He's learned to count. They all have. 1, 2, 3—never more than three, and by three you mean three hundred, and by numbers you mean calories because any more than three and he thinks his lungs might fill with actual air instead of the smoke he says is the same. He learns to joke about the salad he eats and the dressing he pushes away, about how his fingers shake as he takes that extra cracker. About how he hunches over the porcelain toilet seat and coughs ups his insides, spills his guts into the crystal water.

You're scared. You're afraid one day you might wake up and he won't be there, afraid one day you'll touch him and he'll disintegrate and you'll trace your hand through the fine powder of his skin and wonder where you went wrong. 

He's beautiful, though. And you're drunk on it, high on the creases at the corner of his eyes and the angle of his brows and the red rings around his wrist from bands when he takes out his hair. You want to give him the world. 

But, he's so delicate and you're sure if you hand the world to him he won't be able to bear the weight. It's just—his bones are hollow, see. And his wings are so tiny. And his lungs are full of ash, because he's burnt his insides somehow, let his breath die in his throat. But his mind is beautiful, and you can see it in his eyes. They're green, you think. You want to write sonnets for him. Want to tell him how the freckles on his cheeks remind you of stars, how the curve of his cheekbone reminds you of the arch of the coliseum. He's been carved out of marble, but he can melt. You know that. He can crumble. You don't know how that works but it just does, just makes sense in one of those impossibly lovely ways.

You put your hand on his chest and you can feel his heart. It thumps against his rib cage like it wants to get out, hammering in a nonsensical, stuttering rhythm and you don't understand. He traces a hand from his navel to his sternum, and you think he's trying to split himself open. You know he can't though. His nails are brittle and broken, far too weak. But his skin is tissue paper, after all, and you think he might be able to do it if he tries hard enough. And that scares you.

Sometimes when he stands up too quickly, he'll sway on his feet, stagger and have to grip at a wall just keep himself from toppling over. Once he passed out, right in front of you. Snapped his wrist and called it lovely. It scared you half to death, and you can't remember much. Because, see, your vision blurred and you suddenly thought about life without John. You think about his smile and his laugh and his eyes and the red rings around his wrist and you're more scared than you can ever remember being but of course you can't remember much, and _oh god what if this is it_ —

And then there's monitors and white fog and erratic rise and fall of a heart beat and you can't seem to look away from it. As though it's the only thing keeping him alive, and if you look away he'll crumble. 

He's home but his wrist is in a cast. He's home, but his breathing is still laboured and his heart still goes faster than his head. He's home but it's not enough. He's home but his wrist is in a cast.

And you try and start as many sentences as you can with a conjunctive, because you hate endings. Because there's always something coming after, has to be something more than just this. You don't believe in heaven. You believe in a sentence starting with "and" and a boy with a freckled face and hollow bones.

You think of John in poems and rhymes and prose, because it's somehow easier to write him down in ink and paper. He touches you and you almost pass out because his nose is pressed into the crook of your neck and you can feel his hot breath fogging over your glass skin, and you think he can see right through to your heavy, solid bones and soft insides. You hope he can see something in your rib cage other than empty space. Sometimes you think you can hear something rattling in your chest, something fist-sized and full. Then you look down and see nothing but glass, and you almost feel disappointed.

But. Nothing changes. He still counts in shaky breaths and his chest still rises and falls in a faltering, broken rhythm you can't make any sense of.

You're kissing furnaces and thinking it's close enough, and you're running a finger over your own lips to try and trap words in your mouth. You're rubbing your wrists and wondering if you can snap them as easily as John did. But his bones are hollow. God, he's going to kill himself one of these days. He's going to snap more than his wrist next time, and you're so scared and you treat him like he's made of glass. (Oh—you're made of glass. But that's different, isn't it?)

And—you're snapping hair bands over your wrists and leaving red marks. Wondering who will crumble first, you or John. He's a bird. You don't know what type, but he's a bird, he's a bird he's a bird he's a bird, and he's going to leave you. He's going to learn to fly soon enough, and you know it's wrong but you don't want him to leave. You yank at the feathers on his wings and drag him back, away from the edge and you both peer at the ground and the people and the lights so far below, and agree it's better to stay up here.

And—you think he might be lying. Because one day he falls before you can stop him, and all you can see are his fingers brushing the edge of the sun and god, you think. Isn't he lovely? He's touching the sky and he's smiling and suddenly he's glowing, and he's smothered in an ethereal light and you feel like crying. But you don't know why, because—look at him. Your John, yours yours yours, touching the sky. 

And—his bones are hollow, you remember. Hollow.

**Author's Note:**

> aHEM: inspired by @mooncaterer's fic (i'm in love with the shape of you) in case i haven't said it enough. um. i promise i'm not a stalker i just really love your fic  
> title is from [this poem](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ZmDVEUsTMH8) by savannah brown bc savannah is my fuckin favourite ok don't even touch me  
> i'm very aggressive today i'm sorry  
> please give me love in the comments/kudos i need assurance i apologise um seriously comments make my day  
> hmu on [tumblr](https://the-girl-who-cried-ship.tumblr.com) if y'all want  
> have a lovely unspecified period of time!!
> 
> ~ Kinzie


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